The Nanny
by MargyW
Summary: In which someone gets a shock, someone is confused, and someone gets spanked. WARNING: This is a crack fic with a hint of fluff. Rated T for language and non-sexual spanking of an adult.


**1983**

The little boy buried his face in his brother's shoulder and sobbed. "I don't want her to go."

His older brother hugged him tightly. "Neither do I," he whispered softly. In his mind he heard his father's voice: "Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft Holmes, one day you will understand this."

** 2013**

"We need to speak to the nanny."

"How do you know there's a nanny?" John asked curiously.

"Don't be ridiculous, John, there is always a nanny in these types of households." Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. He turned his attention to Lestrade. "Has anyone seen the nanny?"

Lestrade shook his head. "She apparently left their employ early yesterday without giving notice."

"That's a bit odd," John noted. "Is there a photograph of her?"

"Here." Lestrade held out a mobile phone. "The deceased's phone had a photograph of the children with their nanny on it."

Sherlock took the phone from Lestrade and gave the photo a cursory glance. He froze, his eyes going wide with shock. The phone slipped from his nerveless fingers. Lestrade only just caught it before it hit the concrete. "Damn it, Sherlock…" The rest of his words died unspoken as he took in the dazed look on the younger man's face. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock turned and walked away. John and Lestrade exchanged a worried glance, then John ran after his friend.

Sherlock was silent and withdrawn all the way back to Baker Street in the cab. When they arrived he ran upstairs to the flat. John paid the cabbie, and upon climbing the stairs to 221B found his friend huddled in his chair, coat still on, and arms around his knees.

John stood and looked at Sherlock. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock didn't reply, just seemed to huddle further into himself.

John frowned. "You were fine until you saw that photo. The family is unknown to us, so seeing the kids couldn't have upset you..."

"I am NOT upset."

"So it had to be the nanny. You know the nanny."

"You're getting better with your observations."

"I have a good teacher."

A smile flicked briefly across Sherlock's face. He sighed. "She was my nanny, well, mine and Mycroft's."

"You mean she looks like your nanny."

"No, John. She was our nanny."

John stared at him. "Sherlock, she can't have been. The woman in that photo wasn't much older than you. It's not possible."

"Nevertheless, that photo was of Nanny."

John shook his head in disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, when he became aware of footsteps coming up the stairs. John hurried to the door and looked out. The woman from the photograph was coming up the stairs towards him. She wasn't much taller than John, brown haired and red lipped, carrying a carpet bag in one hand and an umbrella with a parrot head handle in the other.

"Ah, John. Is Sherlock in?"

"I…ummm…" He stood to one side as the woman brushed passed him and into the flat.

"Sherlock."

"Nanny!"

A scuffling noise followed. John went back in to discover the woman seated on their couch, Sherlock crouched on the floor beside her with his head resting against her knee. She was gently brushing Sherlock's curls with her hand. The bag and umbrella rested on the floor at the end of the couch.

"My poor, sweet boy, this has all been too much for you." She looked up at John. "Tea would be very nice, thank you John."

John found himself walking into the kitchen to make tea. He paused and looked back into the living room. The woman's attention was all on Sherlock. "Do use the good tea service. You'll find it in the very top cupboard."

Dazed, and more than a little confused, John climbed up on a chair to retrieve the tea service he hadn't even known Sherlock possessed.

When John came back into the living room with the tea on a tray, along with a plate of ginger biscuits and a plate of sandwiches he had somehow felt compelled to make, Sherlock had removed his coat and was sitting on the sofa beside the mystery woman.

She turned a beaming smile on John and reached for the teapot as he slid the tray onto the table. "I'll be mother, shall I?" Without waiting for a response, she poured tea for the three of them. Sherlock took a desultory sip. "Have a sandwich, Sherlock. You're much too thin, young man."

Without arguing, Sherlock selected a roast beef and piccalilli sandwich from the plate and began chewing. John stared for a moment, then looked at the woman. "Can you come around more often? I can never get him to eat."

Sherlock glared at him, still chewing on the crusty bread.

The woman smiled at John and patted Sherlock gently on the knee. "You just need to know the right words to use."

"So my begging has been a complete waste of time then?"

She laughed softly and selected a ginger biscuit from the plate. "Now, about that nasty business you were called to, Sherlock. It is obviously the gardener. He's in love with the stable boy. The children have been hidden in the gamekeeper's cottage."

Sherlock hastily swallowed his last bite of sandwich. "Of course, that's the only thing that makes sense!" He dug his phone out of his pocket and began to text Lestrade. The woman smiled fondly at him, then switched her attention to John.

"Who are you?" the little man demanded.

"Me?" The woman smiled sweetly. "I'm just a nanny."

John snorted. "And I'm Father Christmas. There is no way you could be Sherlock and Mycroft's nanny, you're not old enough."

"John!" the woman admonished. "Didn't your parents teach you that it is impolite to refer to a woman's age?"

"We weren't big on social niceties."

The woman frowned critically at him. "I had noticed that. Really, the manners of young people today are disgraceful."

Before John could think up a suitable response, the door to 221 Baker Street banged loudly. Footsteps could be heard stamping up the steps. Mycroft's voice bellowed out "Sherlock, what the fuck have you been doing?"

"What's rattled Mycroft's cage?" John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock tucked his phone into his pocket, grinned wickedly, and winked at John.

"Oh dear," the woman sighed.

Mycroft burst through the door, more angry than John could ever recall seeing him. So angry that his usual poise and good manners deserted him. "Sherlock, you little shit…"

"MYCROFT HOLMES, cease that appalling language this instant."

Mycroft stared in shock at the woman seated on the sofa. "Nanny?" It came out almost as a whimper.

"What have I told you about vile language?"

"Ummm…."

"Hmmm. It seems you have forgotten, and it further seems that you need a reminder." She leaned sideways and reached, unseeing, into her carpet bag. Her hand emerged clutching a wooden spoon. John stared it the spoon, then stared at Mycroft, who had gone dead white.

Nanny got to her feet, reached out, grabbed Mycroft's ear, and marched him into the kitchen.

Not quite believing what appeared to be happening, John got up and followed, Sherlock close behind him. John could almost feel the glee radiating off Sherlock.

The woman twisted Mycroft's ear, forcing him to bend over the table, then the wooden spoon began to rain down on his backside. Mycroft could not restrain himself from yelping. "I have told you before about using bad language, young man."

Sherlock's delight in the scene was growing. "I'd be careful, if I were you," John whispered to the man standing beside him, "if she realizes you set Mycroft up, it will be you bent over our kitchen table." Sherlock's unholy glee subsided immediately. He shot John a reproachful look.

"How did you know I set Mycroft up?" Sherlock whispered back after a moment's thought.

John chuckled softly. "It took you too long to send that text to Lestrade. So you had to be texting someone else as well."

Sherlock gave him a long, penetrating look. "You really do get more interesting by the day, John Watson."

He looked back at the table. Nanny gave one last hard swat to Mycroft's upturned rear and let him go. Mycroft was red-faced, and moist-eyed; his dignity in tatters. He rubbed his arse furtively. A few sounds resembling sniffles escaped him.

"I had wondered how Mycroft had come by his restrained good manners," John observed neutrally, trying to ignore the fact that Mycroft had just been spanked in their kitchen, bent over their table. It was a mental image John was pretty sure he'd be years getting rid of. Sherlock, on the other hand, was probably wallpapering several rooms of his Mind Palace with it.

"A good nanny should always leave her mark on her charges."

"I wasn't aware that her mark should include scar tissue."

The woman glared at him. John took an involuntary step backwards. "Impudence! Obviously you weren't spanked often enough as a child. That can be rectified."

John folded his arms and glared at her. "I was a Captain in the army. I refuse to be intimidated by a woman with a wooden spoon. You don't have a hold over me like you do over Mycroft and Sherlock. I had a real mother, not a bloody paid substitute."

Mycroft stopped rubbing his behind and gave John a peculiarly respectful look. The look Sherlock shot him bordered on adoring. The woman gave him an odd little smile, then nodded to herself as if John had done something she approved of. For the life of him, John couldn't think what that could be.

"John! Sherlock! Is everything all right?" Mrs Hudson's worried voice floated up the stairs. "I heard noises."

John hurried to the door, "It's okay, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft is visiting, you know what that's like."

The landlady's face broke into a smile. "Oh my goodness, yes. You'll make sure they won't kill each other, won't you John?"

John grinned. "Of course."

"And make sure they clean up any mess they make. It took me ages to scrub the tea stain off the wall after Sherlock threw a cup at Mycroft last time."

"Trust me, Mrs Hudson, that won't happen today."

"All right, dear." Mrs Hudson turned and went back down the stairs.

John turned back into the flat. The carpet bag and umbrella had gone from beside the sofa. There was no sign of the Holmes' nanny at all. Puzzled, John looked around. Sherlock and Mycroft stood looking out the window.

"Where is she?"

Mycroft beckoned him over to the window. John looked out. His eyes grew wide. "No! That's not possible!"

High above Baker Street, the woman with the umbrella looked back down at the faces of the three men at the window of 221B. The parrot head opened its eyes, "They're both in safe hands, you know."

"I know. I was correct in my assumptions. John H. Watson will take care of them."

With that, she sailed higher until she was lost from sight above the clouds.

**Author's Note: Thanks to my wonderful friend Rebecca for the plot bunny. Her bunnies are always lots of fun. Mycroft got spanked at her special request. The things I do for my friends.**

**Andrea and Rebecca beta-ed this. I owe them many thanks for their time.**

**The genesis of this story came from a Setlock photo of Benedict hanging in the air in a harness holding a large umbrella over his head. The Mary Poppins comments came thick and fast, which resulted in the story you have just read and, hopefully, enjoyed.**


End file.
